What If
by yingyue
Summary: A prophecy concerning the Dark Lord and his would-be adversary was made in a dimly lit room above the Hog’s Head in the Order of the Phoenix. It said that the one who would oppose him would be born at the end of July to those who had already defied Vold


A prophecy concerning the Dark Lord and his would-be adversary was made in a dimly lit room above the Hog's Head in the Order of the Phoenix. It said that the one who would oppose him would be born at the end of July to those who had already defied Voldemort thrice. What would it have been like had He-who-must-not-be-named had marked Neville Longbottom as his equal rather than Harry Potter?  
  
Neville Longbottom sat on a ledge staring out into the overcast skies outside the school. He absentmindedly stroked the mimbulus mimbletonia, causing the potted cactus to make soft crooning noises interpretable as a sign of pleasure. He sighed loudly in the darkness.  
  
Fame did not suit him well. All those people staring at him while he lugged his books to and fro from classes. The incessant whisperings behind his back... It was bad enough on platform 9 ¾ that children kept crowding around him to see the scar on his forehead, gaping at him as if he were some animal in a zoo or something.  
  
Neville buried his face in his hands and allowed himself the luxury of a private sob.  
  
By the time he awoke, light was streaming in from the windows of the Gryffindor common room. Hermione and Ron were already up, quarreling as usual over some parchment covered in Ron's spidery scrawl. Harry sat cupping his chin with his hands, vacuously focused on the burnt out embers in the grate. Neville rubbed his eyes and climbed off the ledge. He stretched; now painfully aware of the awkward position he'd spent the night in.  
  
"Good morning, Neville" Hermione broke up her argument just long enough to give a bright early morning greeting to him. He averted his eyes and gave a shy nod and took a turn up toward the boys' dormitory, nearly knocking over Seamus Finnigan as he came down the stairs with an armful of books.  
  
"Watch where you're going, will you?" Seamus pushed past Neville before he could apologize, heading for the nearest table. "Damn I hate potions," he muttered forcibly. "Damn Snape!"  
  
Neville continued morosely up, plonking himself down on the soft covers of his own bed. It was a good thing the weekends were here. The homework was just piling up and he had not had a chance to practice any of Professor Flitwick's spells. Snape had demanded a 3-foot essay on the proper concoction of a draught of peace, which he had so badly failed in making, handing in a gooey orange mess rather than the expected golden brew. He'd barely scraped a D for that one.  
  
He looked out of the window at the clear blue skies and wondered how it was that the sun could still shine so brightly despite Voldemort's return. Sounds of laughter drifted up from the common room. Sometimes he wished Professor Dumbledore would be less vague in his directions. Writing to his grandmother again would be good. He always found comfort talking to her; even if he sometimes got the impression that she blamed him for the death of his parents.  
  
He had never actually known them, considering that he had only been a baby when they had fallen victim to the Dark Lord. The familiar burning sensation in the scar hit each time he thought of them, although his only memories of them involved a bright green light and high- pitched laughter. He'd seen the faces of his parents in old photographs and he could just imagine their faces twisted and contorted in pain in those final moments when Voldemort had used the Avada Kedavra curse on them. He gritted his teeth and stood up, looking out at the blue skies once more. Sometimes he wished he could fly better on a broomstick. The freedom of feeling the wind in his hair as distance from the ground loosed his bonds with worldly woes would have been a great from of release. Sometimes he envied Harry for that, as well as for the peace and obscurity the Potters had enjoyed while most of his younger days had been spent in the public eye, having his face splashed all over the Prophet regularly. His choice of ice cream flavours had once been criticized in an edition of the Quibbler.  
  
Neville picked up his wand, feeling it's comfortable weight in his hands. It had once belonged to his dad. His grandmother had told him how gifted an auror his dad had been. At least in his Defense Against the Dark Arts classes he was not letting him down in anyway. He could usually even produce a corporeal Patronus, even if it was in the shape of a moving tree...  
  
He unconsciously looked out toward the edge of the forest where the whomping willow stood and smiled. Recently, Neville had taken to visiting the old tree, bringing it small bags of dragon dung and sitting around to talk to it. People had often told him the tree was dangerous, quite likely to beat him to pulp for even going near it, but thus far it had shown little sign of aggression beyond it's initial waving of branches slightly above his head.  
  
Neville headed out to the grounds alone. Loner that he was, no one questioned his regular solo trips down to various parts of the school.  
  
Holding his robes to avoid them dragging in the freshly applied fertilizer, Neville sat down on one of the large roots and leaned his back against the gnarled old trunk. The tree groaned a welcome, shifting its branches to block the sunlight off Neville's face. The tree groaned again, a long drawn out note with a hint of concern.  
  
"You always do seem to know what I'm feeling Willow." He patted the tough roots. "It's just school getting too much to handle. The amount of homework we've got is inhuman!"  
  
The tree issued another softer groan.  
  
"No, you're right. Homework isn't the main problem. Guess you picked up a lot just growing in the grounds of Hogwarts eh." He sighed again. "It's that thing about Voldemort again."  
  
The tree creaked in protest. "No I will not stop saying the name! He's not going to be targeting trees when he comes back to power, so why be so afraid?" Neville's rare flash of temper sobered the tree down somewhat. "Dumbledore somehow doesn't seem to be getting through to the ministry. And he never tells me anything even when it concerns me!" He crossed his arms, fuming silently in the shade. The tree groaned softly in an attempt to calm Neville.  
  
"My own good? So everyone tells me! How good is it for me that I'm the only one worrying that he'll just pop up in front of Hogwarts one day while everyone else cheerfully ignores his return? I'll go bloody insane by then!"  
  
Shouts not far attracted his attention, not the least because whoever it was had been saying something about him. He looked up to see Malfoy saying something aloud to his usual goons, Crabbe and Goyle. They were all looking at him and laughing uproariously. Neville's eyes narrowed. The three closed in on him, Malfoy pulling out his wand.  
  
"Come on you cowards! One on one! Or don't sons of Death Eaters have guts?" Neville's frustrated challenge surprised even himself.  
  
"Why you..." Malfoy was obviously angry and strode forward on his own, brandishing his wand. "Stupe..." Before he could finish, Neville shouted "Expelliarmus!" sending Malfoy's wand flying into the boughs of the whomping willow.  
  
The enraged Malfoy glared at Neville before summoning Crabbe and Goyle forward. The two cracked their massive knuckles, giving Neville all the time in the world to hit one with an Impediment jinx and a full-body bind on the other.  
  
"I'll get you for this Longbottom!" a disarmed Malfoy screamed at his retreating back. "Snape will be on your case in an hour!"  
  
Neville knew the likely consequences of his actions, but at that moment, it didn't really matter to him. Those three had been just the outlet he needed to vent his frustrations. He was oddly happy as his short legs carried him as quickly as they could up to the Gryffindor common room. 


End file.
